The neck of him, watching the news

Whenever he leans forward, nodding
at the events of the great world, he
exposes the lowest part of his neck, soft
as his very first skin
and because his collar is unbuttoned
and his shirt all slipped and loose, displayed
below is a semi-circle of flesh, where the sun
has washed him apricot.

And he is so vulnerable there, I am
transfixed by outrageous potentials:
sly shrapnel, malicious arrows, craven
paraphernalia from any time
and I want nothing ever to pierce this
precious little crescent and make vast,
covert pledges to protect it
from all real and mythical ills
so I
can bite it.